But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. Suddenly she had become afraid. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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